


the resolute urgency of now

by alethiometry



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Light Angst, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-29 15:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17810183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alethiometry/pseuds/alethiometry
Summary: One night in a safe-house in an abandoned corner of Arkadia does little to quell the poison that Kosmos has sown throughout the land. But whatever peace they can find here, they will treasure dearly, and count themselves lucky.





	the resolute urgency of now

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatsouthernanthem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsouthernanthem/gifts).



> A birthday fic for my dearest birthday almost-twin [thatsouthernanthem](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsouthernanthem) ([honkytonkybonky](https://honkytonkybonky.tumblr.com) on Tumblr)! Wishing you good health and all the joy in the world! <3 
> 
> Title is from “Tonight, Tonight” by The Smashing Pumpkins.

Kassandra returns to the safe-house long after the sun has set, Philonoe shrouded in a stolen cloak and close by her side, little Niloxenos clinging to her hooded shoulders. A sprained ankle as they fled, she explains to Brasidas as she lets the boy gently to the ground—nothing that a good night’s sleep out here in the freshness of the night air will not remedy. She is hobbling too, he notices, just barely. She settles their companions into the only bedroom in this house, and kicks off her sandals and pulls her old pair from the pack on her back with a rueful chuckle.

“They looked nice on the feet of a guard I killed,” she says, waving the incriminating pair, “but the leather is stiffer than I would have liked. Ah, well. It’s only a small blister, and they should fetch a good handful of _drachmae_ in the _agora_ , at least.”

He laughs with her, doing his best to suppress that traitorous little thrill in the pit of his stomach as they share a smile, a moment’s respite. In the lantern-light in their little safe-house—more a hut, really—the shadows that dance across her face are deep, and serve only to highlight the dimples in her cheeks.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, gesturing to the pot he has bubbling still over the cooking-fire. “I know you have no taste for Spartan stew, but it will keep you warm and full until we find something better to eat in the morning.”

Did he actually say _we_?

If Kassandra notices, she makes no comment of it; she simply takes the bowl he offers, ladling what looks like just enough stew to be polite, and eats it silently as he tends to his shield and spear across the rickety kitchen table.

For several minutes there is no sound but the crackling of the cooking-fire, the soft sweeps of oilcloth across iron, and the breeze outside as it rustles the trees that surround their little temporary haven.

“Have you been to Arkadia before, Brasidas?” Kassandra asks, voice soft so as not to wake their sleeping wards.

“A few times,” he replies. “Once for battle; twice more, I think, passing along intelligence. It has been a while. And you?”

Kassandra shakes her head. “The Peloponnese is new to me. Or, if I came through here before, I was very young and do not remember. But on clear days on Kephallonia, I could climb up to the base of the statue of Zeus, and turn southeast, and catch a glimpse of the coast of Achaia.”

“It’s a beautiful land,” he tells her, “and so different from the mountains and craggy valleys that make up so much of the rest of Hellas. Not swampy, either, like Elis to the northwest. The hills here are lush and fertile, and in the harvest season you cannot travel from one end to another without the smell of ripened wheat following you the whole way, for entire rolling hills are taken over by this gold that nourishes the entire Peloponnese.”

He needn’t repeat his request, for she has heard it a thousand times: Speak to Lagos. Listen before you act. Do not burn the grain.

“You have my word,” Kassandra says. “When I apprehend your man Lagos, I will speak with him first. But I must ask you this: _if_ Lagos is who you say he is— _if_ I manage to spare his life and sever his ties to his puppeteers—have you a plan in place to keep the Cult from seeking further retribution on him and his family, as they will certainly do?”

No, Brasidas thinks in dismay. He does not. He only learned of Lagos’ involvement yesterday. His head is spinning with possible escape routes, aliases they could take, allies he could trust to take them in and spirit them further into the shadows, further from the reach of this many-headed, all-knowing entity that has poisoned so much of their world without anybody ever noticing.

But somebody _has_ noticed. Somebody has slashed her grandfather’s half-spear across the snakebite they have left, intent on draining that venom from the wounds, and may the gods help anybody who stands in her way.

“What would _you_ do?” he asks.

Kassandra is silent for a time as she stands and refills her bowl with more of his stew. (Perhaps she likes it.) (Perhaps she’s just hungry.) (Don’t be stupid.) She paces as she eats, deep in thought. They’ve eaten through the last, stale pieces of bread from their packs, so when she is finished she simply swipes her fingers across the dregs at the bottom of the bowl, and licks them clean.

(Shameless, Brasidas thinks. She is utterly, blissfully, enthrallingly shameless.)

He does his best to ignore the fluttering in his heart as she turns to him, finally, and says:

“Kephallonia. Book them passage to Kephallonia. I—I could write Philonoe some instructions. Who to trust, who to avoid—”

A grin is spreading across her face, her amber eyes alight with the thrill of a plan in conception. And it could work, she says—it _could_ , for the very fact that her journey had started there in the first place; nobody would think to look there anymore. Now that Kephallonia’s only resident of interest has long since left without a backwards glance, it is once again a place so inconsequential, neither Sparta nor Athens nor the Cult of Kosmos would ever spare it a moment of thought. Not when the Eagle Bearer draws attention wherever she travels across the Aegean.

It is a wild plan; impulsive, half-mad. But it could work, Brasidas thinks. It has to. They are not afforded time to be as methodical as he would ideally prefer, but they can make it happen.

“—Samikon,” Kassandra is saying. “That’s where your friend is now; that’s where I will find him tomorrow and speak with him, and hear the truth of his involvement with the Cult. Head north to Achaia with Philonoe and Nilos tomorrow, Brasidas, and find a ship to take them to Kephallonia. If all is well, I will send Lagos to reunite with his family there. But if not…”

She trails off, glancing at him briefly before dropping her gaze, worrying her lips with her teeth. And perhaps she even wants to believe him, but still she has her doubts. About Lagos. About him.

But then… could she be right? Could his friend be colluding with the traitor-king who wants him dead?

He will not believe it. _Cannot_ believe it. For that line of thought leads only to madness.

“You still think my judgment is clouded,” he says flatly, rising to his feet and stowing his shield and spear. “That I am willfully and woefully blind, because he is my friend. But that is not so. He is my _friend_ , Kassandra, and I know him. Better than you, I might add.”

Kassandra sighs, shaking her head. “I think you are a loyal friend,” she murmurs, “and anybody who can call you as much is very lucky indeed. I think you are a good man, better than most, and that is why I fear—”

She crosses the tiny kitchen then, clasping his shoulder, and and her eyes hold only compassion and she gives her head another shake.

“—I fear that I may not find the friend you remember, and that it will shatter your faith and break your spirit. I fear that bandits will waylay you on your path and slit your throats before you reach the port of Patrai—that agents of Kosmos will ambush you even there, that the traitor-king has somehow twined his noose around your neck far tighter than I thought, will pull it faster than I can cut you free. I fear—”

“Stop,” he tells her softly. He places his hand over hers, and squeezes. “Kassandra, stop. You are not the only warrior in this house, and I am not as defenseless as our enemies would like to believe. You have nothing to fear. I will be fine. We will be fine.”

_Who is ‘we’?_ asks a nosy little voice in his head.

“Get some rest, Kassandra,” he says. “It’s a long road to Fort Samikon. I’ll take watch, and wake you at sun-up.”

“No,” she says. “We will both stay up. Together.”

He frowns. “But—”

“Who will save us from roving bandits,” she teases, “if you fall asleep? No—I had better be there to nudge you awake when you nod off.”

When she grins like that, Brasidas thinks, the rest of the world falls away.

“As you wish, then,” he concedes. “But if _you_ fall asleep—”

“I won’t.”

He smirks. “Thirty _drachmae_ says you will.”

She lets out a bark of laughter then, incredulous. Wolffish. “Brasidas of Sparta,” she exclaims. “You do not strike me as a gambling man.”

So he pulls thirty _drachmae_ from the pouch at his waistband and sets it on the table, his eyes never leaving hers. “Ah, but this is hardly a gamble, Kassandra-from-nowhere. What’s a little wager among friends?”

Kassandra makes a little noise is halfway between a snort and a scoff as she rifles through her own pouch to match his bet. “Then you should know, _friend_ ,” she says, a corner of her mouth quirking into a sly grin. “I do not like to lose.”

The glint in those deep, dancing amber eyes is enough to make his throat go dry.

“That does not surprise me in the least,” he replies, “but there is a first time for everything. Here—” he unclasps the cloak from his shoulders and bundles it up before tossing it carelessly into her arms, “—to keep you warm through the night, and conceal the emptiness of your coin purse in the morning.”

The evening air is chilly, gooseflesh raising on his bare arms as he exits the safe-house and uses a discarded crate to leverage himself onto its low roof. Kassandra follows suit with far more grace, encumbered though she is by the heavy folds of his woolen cloak. Then she sidles up beside him, pressed to his side, and tosses his cloak over them both. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if she can’t hear the way his heart is hammering in his chest.

“You’ll do nobody any good if you freeze to death,” Kassandra mutters.

If he were to turn to look at her, he thinks, it would bring them close—too close. But even in the dead of night, staring ahead at the shadowed treeline, he can hear the humor in her voice, and does not trust himself to reply.

They sit in silence, warm beneath his cloak, listening to the breeze until it fades, then listening to the thrumming cricket-chirps that follow. There is no movement in the trees, at least not that he can see, and nothing out-of-place in the fields, either. Kassandra breathes beside him, her shoulder pressed against his, and despite the way his skin prickles where it brushes up against her, despite the racing of his pulse and the intrusive thoughts in his mind, he feels more at peace now than he has in a long, long time.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Kassandra says quietly. “You are a good man, Brasidas. And I know you want so badly to see that same goodness in everybody.”

He smiles. “You think I’m a fool.”

“I never said that. I think you are selfless, and kind, and that it’s a difficult path you have chosen to walk. That’s all.”

“It’s not about difficulty,” he tells her with a sigh. “And truth be told, it’s not selflessness, either. Not in the least. You can imagine the things I’ve seen and done, in my line of work; I know you know what it is like to live in the shadows, in a world enshrouded in treachery and drenched in blood. And so I know you can understand: it’s about self-preservation. It’s about finding even just a single scrap of goodness that you can cling to, while everything around you is reduced to swirling chaos. I _need_ this, Kassandra. I need to believe that my friend is still good, and that he can be saved. I need to believe that you can save him. Or I’ll lose my fucking mind.”

She turns to him then, and he has a moment to think that her golden-amber eyes shine brilliantly in the silver wash of moonlight, and then she is kissing him, and his eyes slide shut.

She is gentler than he would have imagined— _has_ imagined—her tongue darting forth in light little sips when he parts his lips for her. Her hand trembles as it comes up to caress his cheek, to run the pad of her thumb over the scar there, and he brings his own hand up to cup hers. He draws her closer, as gently as he can manage, even as his breath catches between their stolen kisses, his heart pounding itself right out of his chest.

“Wait.” He pauses between kisses, his words a breath over her lips. “Kassandra—wait.”

He gives her hand a little squeeze, and feels something wilting in his chest. Slowly, he lets her go, hating how cold his hand feels without hers to hold. Still—

“We are at war,” he whispers. “I-I cannot—I do want this, Kassandra, I swear. I want to kiss you. To sit with you. To know you. But—”

“I know.” Her tone is neither cold nor warm. Neither terse nor compassionate. It just _is_. Flat. Neutral. Nothing.

“I’m sorry.”

Kassandra shakes her head. “My enemies and your enemies are one and the same,” she murmurs. “So perhaps it is better this way. If they knew of us, of _this_ —”

“They would only use it against us,” Brasidas finishes. “I wish so dearly that that were not the case.”

“I know,” she says again. “And I am sorry, too. I shouldn’t have—” She sighs, chewing on her lip, her gaze fixed on some middle-distance between them and the deep, dark forest. “A single scrap of goodness, you said. I only wanted to hold that in my hand a moment.”

His heart clenches, and it hurts worse, and deeper, than any battle-wound he’s ever sustained.

“Tonight, then,” he says, reaching again for her hand. She lets him take it, lets herself lean into his shoulder. A long, soft sigh escapes her lips, and he presses a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

“We could both perish tomorrow,” he continues. “In the blink of an eye, far from the comfort of one another’s arms. But tonight—”

He turns to her, lifts her chin and looks her in the eye. Shining amber, awash in moonlight-silver. He closes his eyes, and kisses her again. Pulls her to him, and she turns fully and settles in his lap, and he wraps his arms around her waist and holds her close. Presses their foreheads together, and feels again that warm fluttering inside him when she smiles and says:

“Tonight is ours. Only ours.”

_But I want more than tonight_ , he thinks as she leans in for another kiss. _I want days. Weeks. Months, even._

A wild, half-mad part of him thinks: _Years._

Could one steal time itself from the gods, as Prometheus once stole fire? What sort of punishment would that hold, should he be caught?

(No matter. It would be worth it.)

But when Kassandra pulls back again, he is relieved to see that she does not seem to share any of his rambling, unspoken worries. Her eyes flick up to meet his, and she huffs a little laugh.

“We are still on watch duty,” she sighs, and he chuckles ruefully. She reaches for his hand and twines their fingers together. “If it were just the two of us here—”

She settles beside him once more, drawing the folds of his cloak tighter around them both. The night is chilly, but beneath the rich red wool, tucked close to one another, they are warm. The forest is silent save for the song of the crickets and the rustle of leaves in the barely-there breeze.

Brasidas sighs deeply, and with the sweet scent of wheat fields and Kassandra by his side, he is as content, he thinks, as he ever could be, for this night belongs to them.

 

———

 

Kassandra squeezes his shoulder in the grey-gold hour just before dawn, but if she asks he will not tell her he fell asleep. He has thirty _drachmae_ on the line.

(Truly astounding, the inane thoughts the mind conjures, in that fleeting instant between sleep and waking.)

“The sooner I go, the sooner I can send Lagos on his way to reunite with his family on safe soil,” she whispers. “Brasidas, I—”

“Go,” he says, smiling. “I trust you. I will see you back in Sparta.”

Kassandra nods.

She drops gracefully from the roof, then re-emerges from the house a few minutes later, her quiver and bow slung across her back. Her sword hangs at her waist and she holds her half-spear loosely in her hand as she makes for the treeline without a backwards glance.

He blinks, and she is gone.

Philonoe and Niloxenos are already stirring when he lets himself back inside. Kassandra has left a tightly-wound scroll in her wake: instructions and advice, Brasidas explains to his charges, for when they arrive on Kephallonia. Lagos will meet them there.

The sun is rising now, and its first wan rays catch the sixty undisturbed _drachmae_ from his and Kassandra’s wager still sitting on the kitchen table. Brasidas scoops them up with a grin, and deposits them into a little pouch that he crouches down and offers to a wide-eyed Nilos.

“Keep this safe,” he says, winking. “Perhaps, when you’re all settled in your new home, you can use some of it to buy something nice for your _mater_.”

The little boy nods and murmurs a thank-you, smiling shyly.

It will be a long, long road to Patrai, Brasidas thinks as he shoulders his shield and spear and follows his friend’s wife and son down the road. And it will be an even longer road home. Until then, he will have find something to cling to. But it won’t be so difficult, this time.

He owes her thirty _drachmae_.


End file.
